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Fic: So Happy I Could Die
Title: So Happy I Could Die
Author: louie x
Rating: R
Series: Olympic Skating RPS
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Evan Lysacek
Word Count: 3108
Disclaimer: Ahhh... it's RPS. Tin hats all around?
Summary: No, no. He doesn't see dead people. Though Galina would call him evil, Evan swears it's just an extra sense he has for knowing when people are going to take a tumble.
A/N: I've been sewing for so long that my brain writes delightful porn to apparently remember the other ways one can use their fingers. Go Muses, Go! :D
It's not clairvoyance, or anything like some must-see-NBC-TV psychic show; it's just a knack, a knee-jerk tug that twists his stomach just before bad shit happens.
So when he's idly looping the ring, going over that day’s itinerary in his head, the pull to his stomach stops his skates even before he realizes. That punch to the gut knocks the air from him and like a startled animal, Evan is looking around for whatever caused his sixth sense to go off.
When he was little, his sister used to say it was him being a jinx. Anti-Heaven Evan was a name he heard more than once, until he showed them up with the medals adorning his neck, skills trumping luck.
This time though, this time it's watching someone he publicly swears up and down to be distant from spin into a perfect quad half the length of the rink away. He watches, heart in his throat, as the slender body twists arcs through the air. But when Johnny lands, his rival's blade just about snaps beneath the inertia of his spin and sends him crashing into the ice.
Sometimes, Evan hates being right.
He pushes off from the wall, moving quicker than even the people barely two strides away, and drops down to where Johnny's way, way too still on the ice. By the time the murmur of worry and concern reaches his ears, Johnny's shifted onto his back, groaning softly from the impact and blinks up at Evan knelt beside him.
A hand reaches out, clasping Evan's own and for lack of something better, he smiles. "Just lay still, they got medic people here, hang on," Evan soothes as he gives Johnny's pale hand a reassuring squeeze. There's no blood thankfully, but beneath the tight black attire Evan doesn't doubt that there will be dark bruises blossoming sooner than later.
"Stupid Mongoose," Johnny says, almost under his breath. "You're supposed to be the last one rushing to my rescue. I'm not a damn princess."
"Mmmhmm, sure thing, your majesty."
Galina gives him a weird look once the medics slip and slide over to help Johnny up. No broken bones, that's at least a bonus, Evan thinks as he feels the woman's glare burn into the back of his head. He chances a peek over at her, and her carefully drawn on brows furrow even more as she doesn't shy away from his gaze. Later, she will come up to him, craning her neck up yet still able to make Evan feel like a child all the same. She will say, "There is something about you. You watched before he fell, how did you know?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbles. Evan looks away, putting on the covers to his skates and wills Frank to get over here faster in order to save him.
"You know exactly what. What did you do?" She pokes her extended finger into his chest. "Did you do something to his skates? Something to hurt my Johnny?" Russian swears fall from her lips, the verbal attack making Evan flinch and thank whatever God is watching him that Frank finally works his way over. His own glare sharp and his tongue already laced with the stern, short, phrases that Evan doesn't pay attention to but they hush up Galina.
To think that she thought he'd do something like sabotage, it makes his hands shake and stomach twist again. Frank jars him from his thoughts once they're in the locker room, him on the bench and his coach standing next to him with his reassuring 'fatherly' smile that used to work on Evan's nerves. "Don't listen to her, she sees ghosts and evil omens all over the place, I'm sure."
"Yeah, thanks," Evan says, more to his laces, than the man beside him.
Later on, he finds out through Tanith where Johnny's holed up while licking his wounds. His coaches are busy trying to get in touch with the skate repair specialist about the metal snapping the way it did. Granted, Evan lets out a soft breath as he thinks about it, it was probably really just a fluke; a crack in the metal giving way after time on the ice but their fury probably lifts Johnny's spirits. He lives and preens for that sort of attention, so having his team, with Galina at the head, ready to rip open the world on his behalf is probably making his week.
It's touching, in a creepy possible world-domination kind of way.
Johnny is in a hotel room not far from the rink; with the meet coming up so soon most of the skaters got settled nearby. He's in a giant fluffy white robe and is propped up by pillows placed like a nest of comfort around him. His eyes don't even flicker up from the television, showing an episode of Top Model from an older cycle that Evan recognizes (he will plead the fifth as to how he knows that, though), but he speaks anyway. "Do I want to know how you got a key?"
"Nah, you'd accuse me of some sort of evil trickery too." Evan sets down the spare keycard on the nightstand, toes off his sneakers, and without an invite settles onto the bed with his back against the headboard. Looking at him finally, Johnny takes his time eyeing the other young man from head to toe before he sighs out of his nose. "Yeah, Galina told me that she thought you did something." Opening his mouth to deny it, Johnny stops any words Evan might have to say wave of his hand.
"Your sun-tanned magic doesn't scare me. I'm not so blind so as to miss how you seem to see just before people fall," their eyes meet and Evan feels his stomach twist again. "I know about you, you're like that bad Richard Gere movie."
"An Officer and A Gentleman?"
Royally bad joke, he knows. But it's totally worth the stunned look on Johnny's face before he breaks into a howl of laughter strong enough to make him wince and hold his hip where it struck the ice. "No, no," he gasps, still smiling though. "The Mothman Prophecies. The one where the weirdo with the crooked shoulders shows up and predicts disasters. Airplanes crashing and bridge collapses, things like that. You should have your own crime-fighting TV show or something, really."
Evan smiles and he reaches out, taking the hand that previously cut him off and laces their fingers together. His gut soothes, eases and Johnny sits up just enough to let his head drop onto Evan's shoulder. "You weren't the first face I expected to see," Johnny admits. "Too bad you weren't in your matador outfit. Then I'd have to really be your pretty princess for you-"
Johnny doesn't get to finish because Evan's tipping his head up, kissing him to stop the words. His mouth tastes like toothpaste and his skin is that silky smooth that proclaims Johnny is fresh from the shower. They'd agreed to stop doing this, the 'this' that is them and Evan using Tanith as a great excuse to explain away the hickies Johnny used to leave on his neck.
After a fight of truly epic proportions, their competitive natures clashing with their off the ice affections, it was decided that 'this' had to stop. Otherwise, they would either go insane or end up making out on the ice in front of the cameras and yeah, stupid but… they had to take care of their careers in a surprisingly narrow-minded field. Evan understood why Johnny broke it off first, taking the hit, being the bitchy one to shove Evan away even though he was pretty sure neither wanted it.
Well, Evan hadn't wanted it to end. Judging by the way Johnny shifts amongst his pillows to return the kiss, biting and owning Evan's mouth in a way that's so distinctly Johnny, neither had he. He only breaks the contact to move into Evan's lap, the robe falling open to let a glimpse of those tiny, barely there underwear he always wears fill Evan's periphery. Johnny hisses when Evan's hand slips around his waist, pressing a palm to the small of his back instead of grabbing at the perfect line of his pelvis.
Johnny groans, "Damn you, Mongoose. I'm too sore to even do this." His brow rests on Evan's shoulder, defeat in his posture as he slumps into the ring of Evan's arms, curling his body to settle aching limbs one way or the other, without really pulling away from the heat Evan provides. "Little Swan," the taller man says, a hint of an overly thick Russian accent to his words, "Your wing, it is bruised. Need time to mend, you do."
He gets a pinch for his efforts, laughing and giving Johnny a quick but tight squeeze just to hear him yelp in between his own breathy chuckles. They're not into hurting each other, or anything, but it's that visceral, physical acknowledgement that sometimes Evan craves. Words and soft touches of affection, they're thrown at him everyday; not that he's ungrateful by any means, just that… what he and Johnny used to have was personal. They were rough, they would bite and scratch until Evan started to tease Johnny about being a vampire since he'd always end up with Evan's blood on him from some minor little wound.
It also meant the sex was fantastic but that's a whole other thought.
Evan does his best to push them away. Johnny was still in his lap, legs draped to one side and head against his shoulder while loosely holding Evan's waist. Popping a boner would be embarrassing and Johnny might very well just tease him for it. So, being proactive would probably be the best method of defense.
He slides his fingers lightly along Johnny's thigh. The pressure is just enough to make the other man squirm, hiss at something tensing wrong, and lightly bite at Evan's neck. It's a cue, a warning to be careful but in no way a sign to stop. Just in case though, because the last thing Evan needs on his conscience is molesting an injured guy, he waits for his soft touches to conjure the kittenish little sounds Johnny makes when he's starting to get hard.
There, a soft exhale just below his ear and Johnny's hand tightens in his hair. Evan chews on his lower lip, feeling his brain start to lose control of his body as his fingers slide beneath the soft cotton briefs to pull Johnny's half-hard cock into his hand. Johnny mouths at his jaw, teeth scraping as his heels dig into the pillow by his feet.
It's easy enough to pivot and turn, to lay Johnny back onto the pillows and lean over him. Easier then to catch his mouth in a kiss, to nuzzle and keep on the slow, gentle pattern because -the more he thinks about it- the more this shouldn't be as rough as they usually go. Johnny's hurt, he needs to be taking care of his dumb self, and that's what keeps him holding Johnny's hand. He keeps it pinned just above his product-free locks and eases his weight to his forearm, letting his spread legs be the trap to stop Johnny from kicking out with his strained thigh.
It's a battle -as it always is between them- to fight the animalistic urge to writhe, to grasp and pull one another into a tight knot of limbs. Evan has to focus on keeping his fingers loose, to exhale the tension in his muscles to show by example that Johnny ought to be relaxing here.
That works, thankfully, and Johnny's eyes are half open in between soft, long kisses as Evan takes his time working the other man toward his orgasm. His own is far down on the list of priorities; it's about Johnny and those wonderful gasping sounds he makes as he's so, so close.
Evan should be paying more attention to himself though. That dropping out feeling in his gut, almost knocking the air out of his lungs a scant moment before the hotel room door opens just as Johnny comes in his hand. Fingers in his hair keeping him close, the uninjured leg-lifting, knee brushing at the inseam of his jeans distracting him from the loud shriek in Russian.
Then there is the whole getting smacked in the head with a handbag while said screaming Russian woman moves in even closer. Evan wants to bolt, to toss the blankets over Johnny and just grab his things and run like some sort of fox escaping a henhouse. Two more smacks to he head and finally he escapes Johnny's tentacle-like grip on him to roll beside him on the bed, covering his head against another blow that he takes with his arm instead.
Galina -god, of course it's her- is furious. Johnny, despite having just come and only in a half-removed robe and underwear, sits up onto his elbows, shouting back at her in a stream of Russian that only provokes more verbal fury from the angry little woman. Evan wonders if he can sneak out beneath their verbal barrage. He gets one foot off the bed, just starts to slide away but Johnny -like a viper- grabs his wrist in a vice-like hold. The maneuver doesn't even stop the flurry of words, the hard rolling consonants that sound far more like the magic spells that he's been accused of casting than anything understandable as English.
"He is not a sex-demon, now please get out!"
She seems less than impressed. Those frightening brows and steel-melting eyes pierce through him -withering any of his remaining arousal- as she lets out what is either a slur against his manhood or just a downright growl. Galina's not someone Evan really wants to have out to get him, but the purposeful drape of Johnny's form -between he and Galina, hell, practically on top of Evan- begins to still his heart from the fear of her wrath. However, she does not lighten the weight of her gaze upon Evan, so much so that after she leaves the room he still feels it burning on his skin.
"Do I want to know what she was saying?" Evan asks, hesitantly. There is a soft smile on his face though, one that he puts on for protection just as much as an attempt to ease his own nerves. Johnny sighs, rolling his eyes before he lays back onto the bed, his head upon Evan's shoulder as a leg and arm is kept slung over him. "She thinks you're trying to seduce me again."
"Again?"
Evan gets a soft swat to the chest for interrupting. He slides his hand over Johnny's, rubbing his thumb into the soft meat of the other man's palm until he feels the last bit of angry tension leave Johnny's fingers. "That you're going to use sex to make me take a dive or something like that. Blah blah magic, blah blah she thinks you're cursed."
"It feels like it sometimes," Evan says with a sigh. He shoots Johnny a little smile though, seeing as his words made the other man's brow crinkle in a way that could almost be seen as concern. "Just always been that way. Before a skater tumbles or falls or if someone trips on the street, but it's gotta be within eyeshot or something like that."
"At least you're not getting ulcers from earthquakes on the other side of the planet."
Johnny's optimism is pleasant, sort of. He gets a nip on his lower lip for drifting though, the conversation turning back to the better distraction of lazy kisses. "That why you're such a workaholic?" Johnny asks in between teasing little touches against Evan's lower lip with his tongue. "To focus past everyone else's klutziness…?"
He trains hard because he wants to win, that's the long and short of if. However, it doesn't hurt to have the mantra of routines to go through -candles, socks, cleaning and cleaning again and again- to gird his body against the constant twist of being part of a sport where people often fall. It’s exhausting and for the first time, Evan feels a rush of relief at being able to tell someone without having them think he's utterly insane the whole time. His mouth is moving without hesitation, tales of his childhood spent with fingers over his ears throughout novice trials and junior competitions. Of how he used to love to watch Johnny because he wouldn't fall.
"Please," Johnny snorts. "Now I know you're just making shit up. I'm kissing ice more than not lately." He looks away, eyes back on the television that's ended up muted. Without the volume up, the women look insane as they rail against one another, barely big enough to hold up against the breeze created by their shouts. Evan strokes Johnny's hair, fingers curling lightly around the longer bits before twisting them around the other way to encourage the natural wave in his locks. Letting out a soft breath, Evan tips his head against Johnny's hair and closes his eyes. He's tired, sore, and the ebbing tide of unfulfilled arousal bends the last straw upon the work-weary camel of his will.
Johnny blinks at his chuckling, the laughter caused by his own stupid thoughts. "You can only stay if you don't go crazy and kill me in your sleep."
"I'll do my best," Evan says, yawning. His eyes are still shut, his body getting heavier and warmer against the pillows once set up just for Johnny's comfort. Now they're back in that kittenish sprawl that's more about contact and the exchange of heat than physical ease. Evan thinks he could just hoola-hoop himself around Johnny's hips for days on end and the only people that would mind would be Frank or Galina.
A soft kiss falls on the corner of his lips and Evan makes a soft sound in response. Sleep is too close to do more than that but Johnny doesn't seem to mind as he snuggles closer. The television volume is turned back on, but it's respectfully quiet, and Evan drifts off to the sound of Tyra yelling at some model for being rude.
If he's purring -not that he'd know, being asleep- Evan will blush and fluster, but totally blame it on Johnny's fingers under the waist of his jeans. The little strokes along his tattoo, tracing the line of ink again and again, only put Johnny in his dreams too.
Author: louie x
Rating: R
Series: Olympic Skating RPS
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Evan Lysacek
Word Count: 3108
Disclaimer: Ahhh... it's RPS. Tin hats all around?
Summary: No, no. He doesn't see dead people. Though Galina would call him evil, Evan swears it's just an extra sense he has for knowing when people are going to take a tumble.
A/N: I've been sewing for so long that my brain writes delightful porn to apparently remember the other ways one can use their fingers. Go Muses, Go! :D
It's not clairvoyance, or anything like some must-see-NBC-TV psychic show; it's just a knack, a knee-jerk tug that twists his stomach just before bad shit happens.
So when he's idly looping the ring, going over that day’s itinerary in his head, the pull to his stomach stops his skates even before he realizes. That punch to the gut knocks the air from him and like a startled animal, Evan is looking around for whatever caused his sixth sense to go off.
When he was little, his sister used to say it was him being a jinx. Anti-Heaven Evan was a name he heard more than once, until he showed them up with the medals adorning his neck, skills trumping luck.
This time though, this time it's watching someone he publicly swears up and down to be distant from spin into a perfect quad half the length of the rink away. He watches, heart in his throat, as the slender body twists arcs through the air. But when Johnny lands, his rival's blade just about snaps beneath the inertia of his spin and sends him crashing into the ice.
Sometimes, Evan hates being right.
He pushes off from the wall, moving quicker than even the people barely two strides away, and drops down to where Johnny's way, way too still on the ice. By the time the murmur of worry and concern reaches his ears, Johnny's shifted onto his back, groaning softly from the impact and blinks up at Evan knelt beside him.
A hand reaches out, clasping Evan's own and for lack of something better, he smiles. "Just lay still, they got medic people here, hang on," Evan soothes as he gives Johnny's pale hand a reassuring squeeze. There's no blood thankfully, but beneath the tight black attire Evan doesn't doubt that there will be dark bruises blossoming sooner than later.
"Stupid Mongoose," Johnny says, almost under his breath. "You're supposed to be the last one rushing to my rescue. I'm not a damn princess."
"Mmmhmm, sure thing, your majesty."
Galina gives him a weird look once the medics slip and slide over to help Johnny up. No broken bones, that's at least a bonus, Evan thinks as he feels the woman's glare burn into the back of his head. He chances a peek over at her, and her carefully drawn on brows furrow even more as she doesn't shy away from his gaze. Later, she will come up to him, craning her neck up yet still able to make Evan feel like a child all the same. She will say, "There is something about you. You watched before he fell, how did you know?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbles. Evan looks away, putting on the covers to his skates and wills Frank to get over here faster in order to save him.
"You know exactly what. What did you do?" She pokes her extended finger into his chest. "Did you do something to his skates? Something to hurt my Johnny?" Russian swears fall from her lips, the verbal attack making Evan flinch and thank whatever God is watching him that Frank finally works his way over. His own glare sharp and his tongue already laced with the stern, short, phrases that Evan doesn't pay attention to but they hush up Galina.
To think that she thought he'd do something like sabotage, it makes his hands shake and stomach twist again. Frank jars him from his thoughts once they're in the locker room, him on the bench and his coach standing next to him with his reassuring 'fatherly' smile that used to work on Evan's nerves. "Don't listen to her, she sees ghosts and evil omens all over the place, I'm sure."
"Yeah, thanks," Evan says, more to his laces, than the man beside him.
Later on, he finds out through Tanith where Johnny's holed up while licking his wounds. His coaches are busy trying to get in touch with the skate repair specialist about the metal snapping the way it did. Granted, Evan lets out a soft breath as he thinks about it, it was probably really just a fluke; a crack in the metal giving way after time on the ice but their fury probably lifts Johnny's spirits. He lives and preens for that sort of attention, so having his team, with Galina at the head, ready to rip open the world on his behalf is probably making his week.
It's touching, in a creepy possible world-domination kind of way.
Johnny is in a hotel room not far from the rink; with the meet coming up so soon most of the skaters got settled nearby. He's in a giant fluffy white robe and is propped up by pillows placed like a nest of comfort around him. His eyes don't even flicker up from the television, showing an episode of Top Model from an older cycle that Evan recognizes (he will plead the fifth as to how he knows that, though), but he speaks anyway. "Do I want to know how you got a key?"
"Nah, you'd accuse me of some sort of evil trickery too." Evan sets down the spare keycard on the nightstand, toes off his sneakers, and without an invite settles onto the bed with his back against the headboard. Looking at him finally, Johnny takes his time eyeing the other young man from head to toe before he sighs out of his nose. "Yeah, Galina told me that she thought you did something." Opening his mouth to deny it, Johnny stops any words Evan might have to say wave of his hand.
"Your sun-tanned magic doesn't scare me. I'm not so blind so as to miss how you seem to see just before people fall," their eyes meet and Evan feels his stomach twist again. "I know about you, you're like that bad Richard Gere movie."
"An Officer and A Gentleman?"
Royally bad joke, he knows. But it's totally worth the stunned look on Johnny's face before he breaks into a howl of laughter strong enough to make him wince and hold his hip where it struck the ice. "No, no," he gasps, still smiling though. "The Mothman Prophecies. The one where the weirdo with the crooked shoulders shows up and predicts disasters. Airplanes crashing and bridge collapses, things like that. You should have your own crime-fighting TV show or something, really."
Evan smiles and he reaches out, taking the hand that previously cut him off and laces their fingers together. His gut soothes, eases and Johnny sits up just enough to let his head drop onto Evan's shoulder. "You weren't the first face I expected to see," Johnny admits. "Too bad you weren't in your matador outfit. Then I'd have to really be your pretty princess for you-"
Johnny doesn't get to finish because Evan's tipping his head up, kissing him to stop the words. His mouth tastes like toothpaste and his skin is that silky smooth that proclaims Johnny is fresh from the shower. They'd agreed to stop doing this, the 'this' that is them and Evan using Tanith as a great excuse to explain away the hickies Johnny used to leave on his neck.
After a fight of truly epic proportions, their competitive natures clashing with their off the ice affections, it was decided that 'this' had to stop. Otherwise, they would either go insane or end up making out on the ice in front of the cameras and yeah, stupid but… they had to take care of their careers in a surprisingly narrow-minded field. Evan understood why Johnny broke it off first, taking the hit, being the bitchy one to shove Evan away even though he was pretty sure neither wanted it.
Well, Evan hadn't wanted it to end. Judging by the way Johnny shifts amongst his pillows to return the kiss, biting and owning Evan's mouth in a way that's so distinctly Johnny, neither had he. He only breaks the contact to move into Evan's lap, the robe falling open to let a glimpse of those tiny, barely there underwear he always wears fill Evan's periphery. Johnny hisses when Evan's hand slips around his waist, pressing a palm to the small of his back instead of grabbing at the perfect line of his pelvis.
Johnny groans, "Damn you, Mongoose. I'm too sore to even do this." His brow rests on Evan's shoulder, defeat in his posture as he slumps into the ring of Evan's arms, curling his body to settle aching limbs one way or the other, without really pulling away from the heat Evan provides. "Little Swan," the taller man says, a hint of an overly thick Russian accent to his words, "Your wing, it is bruised. Need time to mend, you do."
He gets a pinch for his efforts, laughing and giving Johnny a quick but tight squeeze just to hear him yelp in between his own breathy chuckles. They're not into hurting each other, or anything, but it's that visceral, physical acknowledgement that sometimes Evan craves. Words and soft touches of affection, they're thrown at him everyday; not that he's ungrateful by any means, just that… what he and Johnny used to have was personal. They were rough, they would bite and scratch until Evan started to tease Johnny about being a vampire since he'd always end up with Evan's blood on him from some minor little wound.
It also meant the sex was fantastic but that's a whole other thought.
Evan does his best to push them away. Johnny was still in his lap, legs draped to one side and head against his shoulder while loosely holding Evan's waist. Popping a boner would be embarrassing and Johnny might very well just tease him for it. So, being proactive would probably be the best method of defense.
He slides his fingers lightly along Johnny's thigh. The pressure is just enough to make the other man squirm, hiss at something tensing wrong, and lightly bite at Evan's neck. It's a cue, a warning to be careful but in no way a sign to stop. Just in case though, because the last thing Evan needs on his conscience is molesting an injured guy, he waits for his soft touches to conjure the kittenish little sounds Johnny makes when he's starting to get hard.
There, a soft exhale just below his ear and Johnny's hand tightens in his hair. Evan chews on his lower lip, feeling his brain start to lose control of his body as his fingers slide beneath the soft cotton briefs to pull Johnny's half-hard cock into his hand. Johnny mouths at his jaw, teeth scraping as his heels dig into the pillow by his feet.
It's easy enough to pivot and turn, to lay Johnny back onto the pillows and lean over him. Easier then to catch his mouth in a kiss, to nuzzle and keep on the slow, gentle pattern because -the more he thinks about it- the more this shouldn't be as rough as they usually go. Johnny's hurt, he needs to be taking care of his dumb self, and that's what keeps him holding Johnny's hand. He keeps it pinned just above his product-free locks and eases his weight to his forearm, letting his spread legs be the trap to stop Johnny from kicking out with his strained thigh.
It's a battle -as it always is between them- to fight the animalistic urge to writhe, to grasp and pull one another into a tight knot of limbs. Evan has to focus on keeping his fingers loose, to exhale the tension in his muscles to show by example that Johnny ought to be relaxing here.
That works, thankfully, and Johnny's eyes are half open in between soft, long kisses as Evan takes his time working the other man toward his orgasm. His own is far down on the list of priorities; it's about Johnny and those wonderful gasping sounds he makes as he's so, so close.
Evan should be paying more attention to himself though. That dropping out feeling in his gut, almost knocking the air out of his lungs a scant moment before the hotel room door opens just as Johnny comes in his hand. Fingers in his hair keeping him close, the uninjured leg-lifting, knee brushing at the inseam of his jeans distracting him from the loud shriek in Russian.
Then there is the whole getting smacked in the head with a handbag while said screaming Russian woman moves in even closer. Evan wants to bolt, to toss the blankets over Johnny and just grab his things and run like some sort of fox escaping a henhouse. Two more smacks to he head and finally he escapes Johnny's tentacle-like grip on him to roll beside him on the bed, covering his head against another blow that he takes with his arm instead.
Galina -god, of course it's her- is furious. Johnny, despite having just come and only in a half-removed robe and underwear, sits up onto his elbows, shouting back at her in a stream of Russian that only provokes more verbal fury from the angry little woman. Evan wonders if he can sneak out beneath their verbal barrage. He gets one foot off the bed, just starts to slide away but Johnny -like a viper- grabs his wrist in a vice-like hold. The maneuver doesn't even stop the flurry of words, the hard rolling consonants that sound far more like the magic spells that he's been accused of casting than anything understandable as English.
"He is not a sex-demon, now please get out!"
She seems less than impressed. Those frightening brows and steel-melting eyes pierce through him -withering any of his remaining arousal- as she lets out what is either a slur against his manhood or just a downright growl. Galina's not someone Evan really wants to have out to get him, but the purposeful drape of Johnny's form -between he and Galina, hell, practically on top of Evan- begins to still his heart from the fear of her wrath. However, she does not lighten the weight of her gaze upon Evan, so much so that after she leaves the room he still feels it burning on his skin.
"Do I want to know what she was saying?" Evan asks, hesitantly. There is a soft smile on his face though, one that he puts on for protection just as much as an attempt to ease his own nerves. Johnny sighs, rolling his eyes before he lays back onto the bed, his head upon Evan's shoulder as a leg and arm is kept slung over him. "She thinks you're trying to seduce me again."
"Again?"
Evan gets a soft swat to the chest for interrupting. He slides his hand over Johnny's, rubbing his thumb into the soft meat of the other man's palm until he feels the last bit of angry tension leave Johnny's fingers. "That you're going to use sex to make me take a dive or something like that. Blah blah magic, blah blah she thinks you're cursed."
"It feels like it sometimes," Evan says with a sigh. He shoots Johnny a little smile though, seeing as his words made the other man's brow crinkle in a way that could almost be seen as concern. "Just always been that way. Before a skater tumbles or falls or if someone trips on the street, but it's gotta be within eyeshot or something like that."
"At least you're not getting ulcers from earthquakes on the other side of the planet."
Johnny's optimism is pleasant, sort of. He gets a nip on his lower lip for drifting though, the conversation turning back to the better distraction of lazy kisses. "That why you're such a workaholic?" Johnny asks in between teasing little touches against Evan's lower lip with his tongue. "To focus past everyone else's klutziness…?"
He trains hard because he wants to win, that's the long and short of if. However, it doesn't hurt to have the mantra of routines to go through -candles, socks, cleaning and cleaning again and again- to gird his body against the constant twist of being part of a sport where people often fall. It’s exhausting and for the first time, Evan feels a rush of relief at being able to tell someone without having them think he's utterly insane the whole time. His mouth is moving without hesitation, tales of his childhood spent with fingers over his ears throughout novice trials and junior competitions. Of how he used to love to watch Johnny because he wouldn't fall.
"Please," Johnny snorts. "Now I know you're just making shit up. I'm kissing ice more than not lately." He looks away, eyes back on the television that's ended up muted. Without the volume up, the women look insane as they rail against one another, barely big enough to hold up against the breeze created by their shouts. Evan strokes Johnny's hair, fingers curling lightly around the longer bits before twisting them around the other way to encourage the natural wave in his locks. Letting out a soft breath, Evan tips his head against Johnny's hair and closes his eyes. He's tired, sore, and the ebbing tide of unfulfilled arousal bends the last straw upon the work-weary camel of his will.
Johnny blinks at his chuckling, the laughter caused by his own stupid thoughts. "You can only stay if you don't go crazy and kill me in your sleep."
"I'll do my best," Evan says, yawning. His eyes are still shut, his body getting heavier and warmer against the pillows once set up just for Johnny's comfort. Now they're back in that kittenish sprawl that's more about contact and the exchange of heat than physical ease. Evan thinks he could just hoola-hoop himself around Johnny's hips for days on end and the only people that would mind would be Frank or Galina.
A soft kiss falls on the corner of his lips and Evan makes a soft sound in response. Sleep is too close to do more than that but Johnny doesn't seem to mind as he snuggles closer. The television volume is turned back on, but it's respectfully quiet, and Evan drifts off to the sound of Tyra yelling at some model for being rude.
If he's purring -not that he'd know, being asleep- Evan will blush and fluster, but totally blame it on Johnny's fingers under the waist of his jeans. The little strokes along his tattoo, tracing the line of ink again and again, only put Johnny in his dreams too.